Choice is Overrated
by Pout
Summary: 4xR. "So for two years, we've been like good friends sleeping in the same bed occasionally, sharing a name and household, and never touching, ever."


**Choice is Overrated**

_Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.  Apologies if their use in the following is in any way traumatic._

                Politics and business; they do go hand in hand, you know.  I am a politician, and I handle my business with a clear head.  I never meant to hurt anyone- much anyway.  It wasn't an act of revenge, if it were I would have married Duo or someone that might possibly have made an impact.  The point is I didn't, I married Quatre, and life is fine.  Just fine.  Hey, after a couple years of heart-wrenching optimism, waiting for that damned knight in shining armor to finally grace you with his presence, a girl can get used to simple comfort in place of the fantasy, that fatalistic fantasy of a perfect romance complete with one-inch diameter diamond rings and beautiful little dark-haired offspring.  I'd have chosen that path, if I could have.  But, realistically, it's just a fantasy.  You learn to make compromises.  Such is the life of a modern-day princess.

                My marriage to Quatre was a miscalculation, an error, a necessary, condemning mistake.  A mistake, however, is often that which brings the shadowed to light.  Indeed, it was the political proposal (and the subsequent response) that forced me to realize an unpleasant truth: the man on whom I'd laid my most sacred of hopes shared naught of my desires.  (How he and Catherine, of all people, had nursed an emotional flame of that fervor still escapes me.)  The placid calm of the lake which I had filled with my hopes of a perfect relationship had been rudely disrupted by a single, fat, stone that sent ripples pulsing out from the center, jolting the rest of my mind when it hit land.  That's what it was: a pesky stone, sitting in the middle of my lake, mocking me.  (Imagine if you will, a smiley face with a flapping tongue protruding in ridicule painted on that fat rock.)

                In any case, the mistake of marriage, not so much a mistake then as it is now, is best understood by analogy: the Winner-Peacecraft union, in relation to the lake of my most perfect life, would likely be the newly constructed, clear-glass dome that envelops and blockades the cool, unattainable waters but leaves it painfully visible.  And of course, under that water sits, like a tick under the skin, that mocking stone.  And the mistake?  Well, the mistake is that I never knew I'd regret it so much.  How was I supposed to know I'd actually want to love again?

                We never felt love for one another.  We still don't, at least not romantically.  You would think that after two years, we would have either learned to love one another or murdered each other.  Not so, and I won't pretend to know why.  However, despite what repercussions this marriage wreaked upon my emotional well being (and my virginal sex life), it exalted my political status, my business condition.  The Winner-Peacecraft merger proved to be the ultimate success, hardly just compensation for what was lost, but I'll admit, it was profitable.  My husband is a shrewd businessman.  So for two years, we've been like good friends sleeping in the same bed occasionally, sharing a name and household, and (when we do meet) never touching, ever.  

                It's amazing how we've maintained this mime act.  Quatre and I talk less than I do with the plumber.  (Let me remind you now that we live in a number of gigantic, impeccable mansions; what are the chances of me running into a plumber in these mazes?  Or better yet, what are the chances that we would even need a plumber?  Impeccable, I say, impeccable.)  It's not that we don't enjoy each other's company.  In fact, the few talks I've actually had with my husband have been rather amusing.  But a marriage can't function purely off of a safe friendship; we both know that.  It's probably why we avoid each other.

                It's a good thing that we're both busy, busy people.  We're like little, workaholic jets flying one, north to south, the other east to west, at different speeds, at different altitudes.  We're hardly ever at the same house at the same time, so we seldom sleep in the same bed, let alone venture towards anything more than sleep.  (After the first attempt at a honeymoon, which had been thankfully interrupted by a hostage crisis, and the second, which had to be brought to an abrupt close almost before it had begun due to a fittingly timed law suit against one of Quatre's many companies, we decided easily that it was best not to try a third time, lest we inadvertently start a war.)  But I've come to the conclusion that even if we did find ourselves together in a bed again, we would never be able to arouse any lust.  For neither of us has ever been particularly lustful.  Even in my time of Heero-inspired infatuation, it was never lust, just a need for romance.  Quatre doesn't strike me to be a notably sexual individual either.  But then again, I wouldn't know.  Can you believe that I was once positive he was having affairs?  I was so happy for him.

                This deal was always worse on his end, and I'll never really understand why he even considered it.  After all, where I had been wallowing in my lost shot at "true" love, he hadn't even gotten the chance to get knocked down.  Truth is, Quatre knows.  He knows that I wanted Heero, and I'll bet, deep down, he knows that I still want Heero, even if I'm too indignant to admit it; Quatre always seems to know.  And what do I know?  Well, I know that Quatre is afraid to meet attractive women for fear of falling in love when he's already chained up- to me.  He's never had an affair, that much I'm now unfortunately sure of.  He's just too sweet.  Sometimes I think the reason we're so reluctant to meet is that we're both fairly ashamed of ourselves, and probably a bit disgusted by one another.

*              *              *

                It's our second anniversary and my aides have taken it upon themselves to clear all of my business meetings for the weekend.  "Get some," they say.  Yeah, right.  It's like an unsuccessful arranged marriage, except that we have no one to blame but ourselves, after all, we both chose this joint prison of our own free will.  Sometimes I catch myself before I can fall to the thought of "I hate my wife," other times, I succumb, and I roll around in this hatred until I fester and rot in it.  She should never have agreed.  Why did she say 'yes'?  But then, the whole argument eventually turns right around and points the finger at me:  "Why did you ask in the first place?"  It was a business move, and she was my friend.

                I'm looking forward to a bubble bath and some good food.  We'll be meeting at the house in Montreal, one of my favorites.  But I hear the weather is bad.  I'd better call her and tell her I'm flying in.

*              *              *

                The moment he closed the door behind him, he knew something... important would come to pass that night.  He hoped it wasn't a murder.  She was standing in the foyer wearing a lovely, simple dress and the diamond necklace he had bought her last year.  He wondered idly what gift his aides had picked out this time around.  He turned his back on her as he brushed off his jacket and hung it up properly.

                "Hello, Quatre."

                "Hello, Relena.  Happy..." he trailed off not quite sure of himself anymore.

                She smiled indulgently and turned to retreat back into the comfort of their home.  "Dinner is on the table.  I'll be down in a minute.  Are you going to change first?"

                "Yes, I'll be right up."  She was already gone.

                He stopped by his office first, checked his messages and his date book.  By the time he had returned the last call, he registered the light clicking sound of her shoes as she came down the stairs.  She poked her head in daintily and asked him not to be too long, Marie had everything set up half an hour ago, wouldn't want the food to go to waste.  He nodded and headed upstairs.  He had never seen her naked, he realized.  They never changed in the same room, even when they did share a bed.  It was one after another, and he couldn't remember how they had come to settle into such a strange and cordial pattern.

                When he arrived at the dinner table, she was already seated there on her end reading some document or other.  As he slid his chair out, she folded up the paper and put it aside, her blue eyes watching him.  "How have you been?" she asked.

                He smiled amicably and over the course of the meal, they discussed the past three months in which they had "missed" each other.  By the time the last of the dishes had been cleared and the couple had long since moved themselves into the much more comfortable living room, though they were still chuckling over their conversation, the discomfort of their arrangement had returned.  Usually, one of thetwo (generally the less tired individual) would excuse himself and retreat to his office until the other was settled.  When it was safe, the one left downstairs would leave the office and creep up to bed where the other was already sound asleep.  Thus, they avoided any chance of unpleasant bedtime contact.

                With a sigh and a stretch, Quatre set his glass on the table and smiled at his wife.  "I have some work to finish.  I'll be up in an hour or so."  They always announced the ETA.  There was no need for any unnecessary confusion.

                She smiled slightly and he could have sworn she was blushing.  His own smile faded as he watched her uncurl from her spot on the couch and sweep out of the room: "I'll be waiting."

*              *              *

                I've been sitting here in my office for far longer than an hour.  She has never said that before.  It's always been, "Goodnight, I'll see you in the morning," or, "Don't work too hard, Quatre."  I can't stop thinking of my own bloody murder, the result of a desperately miscalculated marriage, my wife, unable to cope with the situation, lures me into the bedroom then hacks me to pieces on the night of our second anniversary.  Of course, she promotes absolute pacifism, but every person has a breaking point.

                I knew something important was going to happen tonight.  I might as well go up and face it.  Hey, I was a Gundam pilot, I always knew I'd die young, but please, this is ridiculous.

*              *              *

                He's been down there for way past an hour.  I wonder what that's supposed to signify.  Did he not get my meaning?  Maybe he... doesn't want to.  I can't believe the complete sham this marriage has become.  I can't even proposition my husband properly.  Gods, it's become worse than I thought.  I must admit, breaking it to him like that was a little less subtle than I would have liked but I was acting on impulse.  What was I supposed to do?  Take his hand and explain to him that my hormones can no longer be suppressed?  I'm feeling foolish now, and more than a little upset that I've encountered rejection, again.

                That's it.  If he doesn't show up in the next five minutes, I'm going to bed and pretending that I never said anything in the first place...

*              *              *

                When he entered their room, she was sitting up in bed wearing the skimpiest thing he'd ever seen her in.  At least she wasn't wielding an ax.

                "You're not asleep," he commented, averting his eyes and heading for their bathroom.  He was annoyed.  If she wasn't going to kill him, than she should be asleep.  Unless she was going to wait until he was asleep to slit his throat...  He glanced over at her and noticed her disapproving glare.  Swallowing a lump in his throat, he disappeared into the bathroom.

                Back on the bed, Relena was ready to throw a temper tantrum.  Damnit, we're having sex tonight if I have to tie him to the bed and arouse him with porn.

                But when Quatre reemerged, his wife's fervor had diminished greatly.  Remaining properly wary, he slipped into the bed beside her and flicked off the light on his side.  "Goodnight."  Relena was seething.  With an angry click, the lights went out and they were plunged into a tense dark.

*              *              *

                So now it's the morning after.  Of course, nothing happened last night, so it's really just the morning.

                I'm still alive, that's good.

                I'm starting to wonder if he even knew what I meant.

                She looks a bit angry, that's bad.

                If we don't talk about it now, I'm going to be scarred for life.

*              *              *

                "Quatre, why didn't you come up earlier last night?"  He stilled considerably, refusing to blink.  "I told you I'd be waiting."  He remained motionless.  "Quatre, we've been married for two years now.  I think it's about time we talked about some of our... issues."

                Now he sat up and turned his head to face her.  "Are you happy, Relena?"

                "No."  The answer was immediate and Quatre's brow twitched in response.  She turned away and gazed out towards the window.

                "Are you?" she returned.

                "I don't know."  She was getting frustrated and, by the look of her twitching jaw, she was getting rather angry as well.

                "Quatre, when you asked me to marry you two years ago, were you attracted to me at all?"

                Dangerous question, correct answer would be: "Yes," he answered.

                "Then why don't you want me now?" she cried, revealing a lost piece of adolescent temper.  She turned her piercing blue eyes on him.

                "Want you?  Want you- Oh.  Oh..."  His eyes widened dramatically and shifted their focus away to the far wall.  His countenance turned contrite and embarrassed.  Realization had dawned, and the couple leaned back into their pillows, both feeling especially zapped of strength.  He mumbled an apology.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't realize..."

                "Quatre, I think we need to really talk about this.  I mean, we can't just keep avoiding each other.  We're married."

                "It doesn't really seem like it," he stated neutrally.

                "Well, can't we just pretend then?"

                He shook his head.  "Relena, I know that you still want him.  We can't pretend when that's glaring at me from all sides."

                "How do you know anyhow?  It's not like I'm still fifteen and transparent.  Am I?" she sounded a bit alarmed now.

                He laughed.  "No.  But I can tell."  Now she looked contrite.

                "It's not like I don't like you.  I'm somewhat attracted to you.  It's just..."

                "You've always wanted him."  She nodded, now looking more morose than contrite.

                "Hey!" she exclaimed abruptly.  "It's not like I'm in love with him.  It's not exactly lust either, so it's not like I have to get over that.  Can't we just teach ourselves to fall in love with one another?"  At that Quatre began to laugh outright.  She swatted at him and smiled.  "I'm serious!"  When he had quieted, she continued her path of logic.  "We've lived, sort of, together for two years, we can obviously cope with one another's presence.  And we're already great friends; isn't that the best basis for a relationship?  It's just a matter of implanting the romance."

                "Relena, you can't make people fall in love," he supplied dutifully.

                "You can't make strangers fall in love.  But we're not strangers.  We're married!"  She lay back down next to him and stared up at the ceiling.  "It's not like we have a choice.  Isn't it better to make something of it?  Get something out of it?"

                There was a contemplative silence before Quatre chuckled.  "So that's why you started with sex."

                She shrugged.  "I was getting desperate."

                "And horny," he added.  Relena rolled onto her side and stared down at him.

                "Did you just say 'horny'?  I am amazed at you, Quatre Winner.  You pervert."

*              *              *

                After that enlightening talk, to show our commitment to this new project of ours, we both declared official vacation time for the next week and a half.  So with our professional duties out of the way, we embarked on the zaniest mission any couple could ever have dreamed of.

                We began our little experiment by going out on a date.  Having decided that our most immediate problem was that we tended to view one another as siblings rather than mates called for some alterations in our wardrobe and mannerisms.  I wore the most revealing outfits I could find and he showed me exactly why he had been the world's most desirable bachelor two years ago.  We made efforts to compliment and caress each other as often as possible to promote the romantic atmosphere.

                After a series of nights out for dinner and dancing, we returned to the mansion, less than thrilled with the results.

*              *              *

                "I like you more, that's good right?"

                "Quatre, this is never going to work if you keep thinking of me as your sister."  Relena stalked from one corner of the room to the other.  "Obviously, we're going at this the wrong way-"

                ("There's a wrong way?")

                "- Horniness aside, I really think this would work better if we tried this from a sexual angle."

                Quatre groaned and rolled over on the bed.  "Relena, I'm attracted to you and everything, but you're still kind of like a sister to me.  Jumping in bed with you isn't going to solve anything."  He propped his head up on his hand, "Although, it could cause severe psychological damage."

                The princess continued to pace but awarded her husband with a withering glare.  "I'm not proposing we just up and out have sex.  I'm saying, we'd move this along faster if we started with sexual desire rather than romantic interest."

                "That's skipping a few steps isn't it?"

                "We're already married, I think we've already skipped a few steps."

                "That's also true."

                "Good, so tomorrow we'll start with sex on the brain, okay?"

                "Must you make it sound so primitive?"

                "We're desperate."

                Quatre gave a sigh from the bed and flopped onto his back.  "Fine, but I'm not sure I actually understand what you mean."

                Relena looked thoughtful as she trotted over to their bed, crawling up beside him.  Lying on her side next to her husband, she rested her head on one hand, letting the other trail across his body (subconsciously noting the perfect tautness of his muscles), down his chest, his stomach, and —

                "Oh...  That's what you meant...  My sisters definitely never did that."

                "Quatre!"

*              *              *

                The next night, we stayed at home and began work on the next part of the plan.  At dinner I nearly jumped out of my seat when Relena began to toe my crotch.  Suffice it to say that was moving a little too quick for my good health.  After dinner, we watched an old movie in the family room while I gave her a massage, which resulted in a very flushed Relena; a sign, which she assured me, was a step in the right direction.  I must admit, by that point, I was quite beyond thinking of her as my sister, not quite ready to pounce her, but I was indeed progressing.

                When we ended up in the bedroom that night, we stood by the window for a time, just holding each other and whispering in the dark.  But we couldn't move beyond that.  The night was a bust.

*              *              *

                The night was a complete bust.  But I think I know why.  All these advances I've pressed him with, he thinks I'm only doing them as part of a project to create a workable marriage.  And yes, that's part of what it is; I do want this to work out for the both of us.  But I also want him to want me.  I barely touched him at dinner and I could see that immediate register of weirdness in his eyes.  But he gave me the most heavenly back rub after dinner; I think I almost purred.

                Our little moment by the window, it was really... it was nice.  I know I could fall for Quatre; I could even really love him.  But he's going to have to love me first.

*              *              *

                "Good morning."

                The blond man smiled up at his wife, "Sorry last night didn't work out."

                "Hey, I never expected us to do it on the first night."  They laughed at that, oh, the irony of it all.

                "We go back to work in two days," he reminded them both.

                "That's right."  She snuggled down into the blankets, laying her head on his chest.  He played with her hair thinking how nice it was to act like a couple for once.  She sighed, "It was absurd to think this would work out in a week and a half."

                "That's not to say that it won't work out eventually."

                He felt her nod in agreement against his chest.  She laughed her little wispy laugh, "We can actually coordinate our home visits now."  Then slipping into a whisper, "It's so sad to sleep alone."

                "I love you."

                Relena's head was up and her eyes were staring at him before the last breath of the phrase could even pass from between his lips.  He smiled at her bewildered face.

*              *              *

                Two years ago, Quatre asked me to marry him.  I realized that my imaginary love life with Heero Yuy was precisely that: imaginary.  I married Quatre thinking that I would never love again.  God knows I never thought someone would ever love me first.

*              *              *

                It was the first kiss we ever shared that actually meant anything.  It's something special to know suddenly that there's hope for some sort of primitive happiness in your life.  When she lay back down next to me and gingerly wrapped her arms around me, she laughed.

                "We do everything backwards don't we?"

                I had to join her laughter for that one.  "Yes, I believe it's time you told me how cute you think I am."

*              *              *

                It took us three more months before we really got used to each other and our newfound relationship.  At that point, we were home together almost every night and we were cuddling and kissing inappropriately like the juveniles we never got to be.  Then one night –

*              *              *

                She's killing me.  I always knew I'd die young, but this is... great...  To die this content: well worth it, I say.  She was right: sex'll do it.

*              *              *

                So that's our roundabout little story.  Our marriage is remarkably stable and more or less normal, not that it'd matter anyhow.  That glass dome over the lake of my most perfect life has shattered and crumbled.  The stone still lies beneath the surface, only now, I've built an island over the damned thing.  And life is great.  Really great.


End file.
